I slip a bit of myself in there most times. That’s what we’re all doing is it not. Slipping in bits and pieces of our lives, our fantasies, our flesh until the blur moves to the horizon and even we can’t tell the difference anymore. Dabbling in these paper people, these false frontmen moving them like dubious puppeteers. Magnets under the board pushing plastic cars. There is the moment I wake if I’ve slept through the night where I still believe in the newness of the day. If I collect enough words or pencils to capture the hype of my heart–I throw it down on the mat and pin it. Wrestling has its advantages. Too many people in your head wilding, maybe it’s why Einstein married his cousin. Too much fucking work finding someone who gets you like you want to be gotten.
If I’ve done the job with a modicum of success you don’t know who I am. If you do–that would be a fright as I’m waiting to get the last few body parts retrofit. The garrulous quotation monsters of the universe are landing on the planet. Squatters. They want us to jump into their pastel bucket of cute puppies and happiness. Decent singular words chained to chemical cheese sauce and numb baby faces before applause and acne make them vomit. Why can’t I remember being something other than the person I think I am now? An African albino claw frog in my past life. Had two and they smelled like crap. They made me laugh though. Looked like chicken breasts with pink eyes on their heads instead of top hats. And where the fuck is the pastel bucket to jump into if I decide to hang it up and go happy?
Her files keep people living inside folders. She is trying to earwig you. Her fingers ill-timed to give out any gold stars today. She wants you to know her in the deepest way possible. Can words do that? She speaks in singular form first person. You are to think she is divulging her shit. She is a liar. Manipulation is something gotten from words. She likes sliding them around one another-allowing them to touch before pulling them apart and killing their spirit. If their souls survive the mat they might be her next story.
sketched with pen on printer paper while on a subbing break last year-thank you